You weren’t supposed to fall in love. You weren’t even supposed to talk to anyone.

Just two weeks alone on a quiet Greek island — no work, no calls, just healing. You didn’t expect to almost get hit by a vintage Vespa driven by a British boy with curls and a cocky grin.

He introduced himself as “Oscar.” No last name. No hints. Just Oscar, who drinks iced coffee with extra sugar, climbs rocks barefoot, and dances terribly at beach bars.

You swam together at night. You lay in the sand and counted shooting stars. You kissed like the world would end tomorrow. You forgot what time meant.

He never talked about racing. You never asked.

But on the tenth day, a black helicopter landed on the shore. People ran. Someone screamed his name. You turned to look at him — and his eyes broke a little when he saw your face.

He walked to you, slow, torn, trembling.

“I should’ve told you.”